


the words came like honey

by endquestionmark



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Bel Rowley is running for her life; what’s new about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the words came like honey

**Author's Note:**

> So let's talk about that season finale, shall we.
> 
> Heavily inspired by [Lessons on Loving a Prophet](http://theteratophile.tumblr.com/post/20057688800/one-you-know-how-this-ends-theres-nothing-you), by Jeanann Verlee.

So Bel Rowley is running for her life; what’s new about that. So she always knew it would come to this, her waiting in a shadowed empty office with regrets she never knew about, dreams she never knew she had, words bursting from her lips that she never knew she wanted to say. So she knew it would end like this, with her waiting for a phone call and picking up when it rings without a second thought, even though she’s spent the last two hours knowing exactly what she’ll hear.

So none of that really makes any damn difference when she scrubs at her eyes, lipstick smearing across the heel of her hand like the blood she knows is dripping down her wrists, _out damn’d spot_ , he would say. She can still taste him and she rubs her fingers across her bottom lip again to see the crimson smear of it. 

So she always knew this was coming; so she threw herself in a headlong rush upon her sword; so damn what, you think that makes her _ready?_

++

So Bel Rowley is running for her life, and at some point she split into two women, running towards two different realities.

In one of them he whispers her name and dies in her arms; in the the other he whispers her name and she dies in his. She doesn’t know which one she is about to rush into, where angels fear to tread; she doesn’t know if she will even make it there to hear her name; she is flickering, like static, like poor reception, and the clatter of her heels on the tile, the stairs, is the only constant, the crackle in the background, _Service will be resumed shortly_.

So she is tungsten, so she is burning, so she is frozen, so she is running. When isn’t she, these days? _I must tell Freddie it’s catching_ , she thinks, and then. Well.

++

She is running, falling, flying. Does it make a difference? Outside her world is broken and bleeding and - her heel catches on the last step and she stumbles.

 _The story,_ he had said, stilted in a way she’d never seen before, _and - you_.

She wonders which one he was thinking of when he sent Kiki to them - she wonders if he can even separate them at this point. She knows she can’t. Already she is thinking of reports, headlines, ways to fill in; already she is nauseated at herself for turning it into just another story; already she knows that that is all anything ever is anyway. Love story, tragedy, inspiration, comedy, it’s all the same in the end, just a shadowplay.

So she is the story and she is running and she is flickering reception; so she is the hum of wires, so she has blood on her hands and a kiss on her lips and she is running towards the inversion of her reality. So she always knew it would come to this.

It’s all right.

She was made for this.


End file.
